


Biscuits and Biryani

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death likes biryani, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9802607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: "Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving." - Terry PratchettIn which Molly Hooper shares tea and chocolate-covered shortbread with her former master, Death and he worries about her cat's weight.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cutebutpsycho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/gifts).



> I've started reading Terry Pratchett's "Mort" (though I'm not finished yet), and about, oh, three sentences in during Death's first appearance in the book, I was half-idly outlining a story where Molly was Death's former apprentice. This is the word splurge that resulted.
> 
> Gifted to Cutebypsycho.
> 
> Edited, but not beta'd.

Molly Hooper walks into her flat, exhausted after a day of autopsies, paperwork and know-it-all interns, to find Death waiting for her. He is a dark figure, a grey cloak and hood covering bones and dark eyes that contain two pinpricks, two blue stars lost in the cosmos.

GOOD AFTERNOON, GIRL.

“Molly,” she says automatically. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

The decayed teeth twist into something gruesome; his attempt at a smile, she reminds herself.

DO YOU HAVE SHORTBREAD?

“I’ve got some chocolate covered shortbread, left over from Christmas I think,” Molly replies, turning to head towards the kitchen, sliding around her plush sofas, around the worktop. She switches on the kettle and rummages in her overhead cupboards. She finds the promised shortbread behind an unused jar of pickles as Toby meows and jumps into the lap of Death. The dark pools shift down. A skeletal hand strokes the crown of Toby’s head.

HE’S GOT BIGGER, Death says, an idle remark.

“Cats do that,” Molly says.

FATTER, Death affirms. YOU’RE OVERFEEDING HIM GIRL.

“Molly. Not my fault – he goes over the road, gets fed by his second family, then comes back here and expects a second meal.” She gets out two cups and opens her tea cupboard, situated above the kettle, on the left to the biscuits-and-pickles cupboard. She glances over to Death. “Ginseng?”

CHOCOLATE COVERED SHORTBREAD USUALLY CALLS FOR ENGLISH BREAKFAST, Death says, ponderous and giving a slow nod. An hourglass appears from the recesses of his robe, sitting in his hand. He stares at it. Molly arranges what shortbread fingers she has left on a plate. The kettle flicks off, water bubbling and boiled.

Her phone beeps. She takes it from her pocket; a text from Mary, asking her to look after Rosie for tonight. A case, she texts. Will update you soon, with a kiss at the end.

Molly texts back says something vague about having a friend round and resumes making the tea. She tries not to notice how little sand remains at the top of the hourglass. How quickly it trickles through.

She squeezes the bag to the side of each cup, arranges the mugs and plate on the tray. A dash of milk for Death, two dashes for her.

Death picks up the mug when she sets the tray on her coffee table, doesn’t exactly drink the tea, but it diminishes nonetheless, sips taken every so often. Two shortbreads get nibbled. The hourglass sand keeps trickling. She reminds herself it’s a part of the job, as it’s part of life.

Toby purrs at Death’s skeletal, thoughtful scratches of his chin. He has the manner of a doctor, delivering bad news to a patient.

HOW WOULD YOU DO IT, GIRL? IF YOU WERE ME?

“Molly,” she starts, but she bites back on the habitual irritation. She shrugs and takes a sip of her raspberry tea. She only keeps English breakfast for friends. “Quickly, like taking off a plaster. You must’ve done it before.”

WHEN THE COSMOS FIRST BEGAN, AND THE DINOSAURS VANISHED. WHEN HUMANS FIRST WALKED THE EARTH. Death nods to the tray. I LIKE THE BISCUITS.

“It’s one of those luxury brands.”

I’LL ADD THEM TO MY LIST. Death swings his head around to look at her. Hands made of bone shift his hood back, revealing the shine of the waxy round of his skull. The dark pools, the two blue pinpricks, narrow. WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME WITH ME?

Everything about her life, since she was ten years old, has been surrounded in the macabre. She could let this particular narrative wash over her, wrap herself up in crap telly and wait for the call from whoever was brave enough to confirm it to her.

That, however, would be a disservice.

She stands up and puts down her mug.

“Yes,” she says. Better to partake. The hourglass disappears back into the folds of Death’s cloak. Toby is suddenly sitting in the place where Death was, and Death stands before her.

WE’LL BE JUST IN TIME. DID I COMPLIMENT YOU ON THE BISCUITS?

“You did,” she answers. They walk together outside onto the street. Death removes Binky’s nosebag and climbs atop. She follows suit, glad for the distraction of the familiarity, the similar mixture of nerves and fascination in her gut.

Binky brings them to an aquarium, with no witness of the white streak of stars, no witness of the constant shifting of sea and land known only to her, her master and the gods and now, the highly trained astronauts. Death had been rather pleased when they’d made the International Space Station. IT SHOULDN’T JUST BE THE GODS WHO KNOW, he’d remarked, watching Brian Cox and Dara O’Briain excitedly discuss its development on her television set. THOUGH IF RICHARD BRANSON GETS HIS WAY, IT’LL BE A TOURIST ATTRACTION SOON.

They wander through blue lit corridors, sharks sweeping slowly overhead, the fins of quick-moving fish more like a royal wave in slow-lapping water.

“You’ve seen right through me, Mr Holmes.”

Molly’s stomach drops, flips. She knew it was someone valuable. Someone close. Death promised, when all was said and done, he wouldn’t come for her until the sands ran out or until there was a particular emergency.

“Can’t you stop it?” she whispers, catching herself as her words spill into the tone of the shaken, the mourning.

YOU KNOW THERE’S NO JUSTICE IN THIS WORLD, Death says, without nastiness, nodding towards the scene, THAT’S WHY YOU LOVE HIM SO MUCH.

Death produces a scythe, the world turns slow. Like golden syrup, treacle, slipping out of a tin. She bakes, most days, and when she makes flapjacks, she always thinks of this. The pink and blue shadows, flickering like an old home movie, shifting in and out of her vision as sound scratches away until it’s nothing but familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. Every pound in her chest screams, run, run, run but she’s older now, not young. So she knows: there are no consequences, whatever she does. Whether she warns or not.

Mary jumps in front of the slow moving bullet that made no particular sound. She falls against a bench with a strange balletic grace. Death moves forward, scythe ready. Molly clutches at his robes.

The stars in his eye sockets bloom to a supernova, fierce and burning.

“Give her a little time.” She knows the process too well, knows that the shade that’s coming won’t be the Mary she knows, just an echo. “Please.”

JUST THIS ONCE, Death intones. He sets down his scythe. The air is still thick like treacle, a minute passing in what feels like an hour. Molly weeps, even though she is a shadow here, caught behind the barrier. Death brings out the hourglass. Molly finally gives it the study she denied when she knew what was coming. Now it’s happening, she feels she can take the luxury. It’s exactly like her friend. Plain, wooden with flashes of gold at its edges, threads of golden azalea. ‘Mary Watson, nee Morstan’ is stamped on its base.

I’LL MAKE IT CLEAN, Death says. He raises his scythe. John Watson is crouched by his wife, howling soundlessly. Sherlock Holmes stands silent. Death slices the blade across Mary’s neck, the cleanest cut she’s seen him give. A shadow creeps underneath Mary’s feet. Her eyes widen but then crinkle at the edges with a smile.

“Oh,” she says with cheer. “You’re here.”

YES, says Death. He holds out a hand and helps the shade of Mary Watson to her feet. Mary turns back to look at the blurred scene before them.

“They’re arresting her. Good. She’s a terrible shot anyway.”

Molly cracks a smile.

THE WORST PEOPLE OFTEN ARE, MRS WATSON.

“Always thought I’d die on the field of battle.”

TECHNICALLY, YOU DID.

“I bet she’ll live another twenty years, that Norbury woman.” Mary glances to Molly. “They always do, don’t they? Don’t tell me you’re dead too Molly.”

“Unfortunately, and no. Not dead.”

USED TO BE MY APPRENTICE. BOUGHT HER ALONG AS A TREAT. AND DON’T WORRY ABOUT NORBURY. Death brings out another hourglass, crystal cut and sharp, with black sand trickling. THE TRIAL WILL CAUSE EXCESSIVE STRESS ON HER HEART.

“Oh, I wasn’t worrying.”

EXPECTED. EMOTIONS GET LEFT BEHIND. Death took Mary gently by the arm, as he always had done, and would continue to do. Molly had seen the gesture hundreds of times, in days that swept by. It had always felt intimate to each shade, each soul, a kindly urging on to the soul to get on with fading so he could go on to the next. It was a gesture one made when urging the most impolite guest at a party to leave.

“Glands,” Molly explains as she falls into step behind Death and Mary. They slip through a wall, finding themselves outside among the slowed rush of London. It transforms into a black desert, mountains of sand, stretched as far as possible, a black sky dotted with stars and no wind. “And don’t worry if you feel like you’re fading. That’s the weakening of the morphogenetic field.”

HAPPENS TO EVERYONE, Death adds.

“Tell me,” Molly says into a brief silence. She doesn’t want to let her best friend go without seeing that smile, hearing that sardonic cheer. “What’s your best memory?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must,” Molly insists, though Mary’s voice is no longer anything but a whisper.

“I think – John telling Sherlock he’s a drama queen on our wedding day. My boys. My baby girl.” Her skin is translucent, her voice difficult to hear. Like a breath of wind catching at her cheek. Her blue eyes harden, quite suddenly. “Look after Rosie, won’t you? She’s – she’s named after me.”

She’s gone then, the memory and life of her friend a glittering speck which Death catches between his bony finger and thumb. He stores it in the folds of his cloak.

They walk down the street, now once more the ordinary rush of a city, remembering their path back down to Binky. He’s happily eating from the oats in his nosebag. Death gives his neck a friendly pat. Molly settles in behind Death. They streak beyond the grey skyscrapers, the occasional green tree until they’re back to her front door. Molly slides off Binky’s back and scratches behind his ears.

MARY WATSON LIVED WELL, Death says. It would sound hollow, coming from anyone else, but the words enter her head and end up settling, slapping up wallpaper and moving their favourite chair closer to the fire. SHE GOT TWO LIVES. MOST PEOPLE STRUGGLE TO LIVE OUT ONE.

Molly glances up, sees the stars swirling in Death’s dark eye sockets, and wakes up in her bed with a message from Mrs Hudson.

* * *

Some weeks later, Molly Hooper does something very stupid indeed: she checks her landline's voicemail. She has two new messages, one brief one from work where Mike says he’ll try her mobile and one that lasts two minutes and ends with Mary cheerfully saying bugger and apologising, reasoning she must’ve sat on her phone wrong.

She calls in sick, her bones suddenly heavy, and eats the rest of the chocolate covered shortbreads. She has a dry mouth, sticky tongue, a headache and she cries.

She just about gets up from the sofa when the crash comes. She tries to wash up, but even that’s an effort.

Her phone rings. It’s Sherlock.

Not today, she thinks. She lets it ring off.

It rings again. She remembers Mary, apologising, swearing, and a little earworm, as is their tendency, creeps into her head. Perhaps he’s in danger. Perhaps she faces another future where she ends up taking a day off work because of one answerphone message.

So she answers.

By the end of it, she wishes she’d waited for that other future.

* * *

Death comes to her sooner than she thinks. She strolls down the street, half-staggering from the weight of grocery shopping. The Uber driver, waiting around the corner, helps her with her bags. When a white horse arrives, a dark-cloaked figure holding its reins with skeletal fingers, he shakes his head and wonders aloud if he had lunch today. Death affixes the nosebag to Binky and strolls across the road. He opens the passenger door and slides into the car to sit beside her. His knees are almost round his ears in the cramped space.

HOW IS TOBY?

“Losing weight,” Molly replies. The driver pulls away, glancing into his mirror. He shakes his head and carries on driving, immediately forgetting what it was he was supposed to remember. “Is it an emergency?”

NO.

“My time?”

NO.

“Then what do you want?”

IT IS NOT USUALLY MY PLACE begins Death, BUT I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU THAT I THINK YOU ARE BEING QUITE RIDICULOUS.

She splutters. “About what?”

YOU KNOW WHAT.

“He dances with Death, he’s an idiot.”

LOOK, GIRL. He brought out an hourglass. The glass was sapphire blue; the grains of sand white. One trickled through, floating towards the bottom. Not the glass of a man reckless with the concept of death; just the glass of a man who wanted to be reckless, but could never find a way to be so. Death stored it away in his robes. THOUGH I DO LIKE A GOOD FOXTROT, ON RARE OCCASION.

Molly narrows her eyes. Brushing off the comment, she rests her elbow against the car window, sinking her cheek into her palm. London flashes by.

“It wasn’t real. That’s what I keep telling myself,” she adds with a laugh. “Because – oh God – it _felt_ , just for a moment, it did feel real.”

AND?

“How can I tell if it is real? We’ve been through so much, even if he – _meant_ it, there’s so much that’s happened – it’s water under the bridge, too much of it.”

HUMANS, Death says with fondness. YOU COMPLICATE THINGS THAT ARE, IN THEIR ACTUALITY, QUITE SIMPLE. INCIDENTALLY, THERE’S A NICE NATURAL DEATH OF A POLITICIAN COMING UP AT ANY MOMENT. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE IT?

 “Just let me dump my shopping at my flat,” she grumbles, as the taxi pulls up to the pavement. She gets out, leaving Death behind to pay the bill.

The death is a heart attack, and the politician, the Prime Minister (A LITTLE DETAIL, sniffs Death), keels over in the middle of a speech to the press. She rants, as shadows rush to her body’s aid, about how the trade deals will be ruined now as Death quietly takes her out of doors and out into the black desert.

HAVE YOU GIVEN MY WORDS THOUGHT? Death asks later, when they’re sitting in a curry house, all thick curtains and excellent service, the waiter politely forgetting he is serving Death itself and writing down Death’s order of a lamb biryani with a flourish. Molly orders curried potatoes as a side dish.

She fiddles with the tea light on the table for a moment. Wax pools in its casing, the wick almost burnt out.

“Why did you let me see her death? Mary’s?” She frowns. “Were you trying to be—?”

She knows Death, and she knows his answer. He gives a single nod.

THERE IS NO JUSTICE IN DEATH, GIRL. PEOPLE DIE, AND I FERRY THEIR SOULS TO THE NEXT WORLD. AS IS MY DUTY.

The curry and potatoes are served to them during her long responding silence.

“You mean the other words, don’t you? The ones you told me when—” She knows death, how it works in the real world and in the shadow world. She knows grief too. Every ugly part of it. She’s at the ugliest part of it all, the part where you can't even acknowledge its fact. She sticks a fork into her korma and chews on the bite of chicken.

Death hums like an uncle who's got a belly full of Christmas dinner. A bit of his biryani disappears off his plate.

“I suppose,” she ponders aloud, half-forgetting her eating companion, “I’m scared of letting people down. Oh, there goes Molly Hooper, forgiving Sherlock Holmes again. Such a walkover. That’s not the story she should write for herself. She needs a better story.”

HAVE YOU MET ANY PEOPLE WHO SAY THAT?

“Well, no. Apart from... me.”

Molly blinks at her own admission. And she watches Death’s plate.

She watches bits of the biryani disappear and for a moment, a simple curry in a London restaurant represents all realities; the real, the shadow and the realities far beyond that. Every grain of sand, every hourglass. It all spirals down to Death. Oh, people argue. People chatter. The black desert, still, awaits.

All that’s left is a shade, with memories that, bad or good, are softened by that same loss and the knowledge that the full-bodied, full-blooded entity is gone for good and won’t be ringing you by accident and will no longer swear sweetly down your answerphone at you. Sometimes those shades are ink blue, Baltic things that crawl over the shiver in a spine. Sometimes they are grey, searches for the bright brilliant light constantly made by the people who knew the entity. The bright brilliant, unquestioned, colourless light is what everyone reaches for. Yet it all ends in a hand at your arm and a black desert.

“Perhaps…” she says tentatively as if she's positing a theory to a panel of experts, “the author should write the story instead of worrying about who reads it.”

Death pauses for a second. IT’S VERY GOOD, THIS CURRY. I MIGHT COME BACK.


End file.
